He sits there on the low, rude, backless bench, With his tall hat beside him, and one arm Flung, thus, across his knee. The other hand Rests, flat, palm downward, by him on the seat. So AEsop may have sat; so Lincoln did. For all the sadness in the sunken eyes, For all the kingship in the uncrowned brow, The great form leans so friendly, father-like, It is a call to children. I have watched Eight at a time swarming upon him there, All clinging to him -- riding upon his knees, Cuddling between his arms, clasping his neck, Perched on his shoulders, even on his head; And one small, play-stained hand I saw reached up And laid most softly on the kind bronze lips As if it claimed them. These were the children Of foreigners we call them, but not so They call themselves; for when we asked of one, A restless dark-eyed girl, who this man was, She answered straight, "One of our Presidents." "Let all the winds of hell blow in our sails," I thought, "thank God, thank God the ship rides true!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO MATTER WHAT, AFTER ALL, AND THAT BEAUTIFUL WORD SO by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE JOBHOLDER by DAVID IGNATOW A PARADOX by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE ROAD TO AVIGNON by AMY LOWELL IN PICCADILLY by ISAAC ROSENBERG LINES ON LEAVING THE BEDFORD STR. SCHOOL HOUSE by GEORGE SANTAYANA |